


Gwenvid Week 2017

by Forestwater



Category: Camp Camp (Web Series)
Genre: F/M, Gwenvid Week, Hanahaki Disease, Mermaids, Sirens, hanahaki, nsfw will be tagged
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-29
Updated: 2017-10-29
Packaged: 2019-01-26 05:18:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12549940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Forestwater/pseuds/Forestwater
Summary: Exactly what it says on the tin. Written in August/September 2017, posted now despite not (yet!) being finished because I wanted them all in one handy-dandy place.Prompts:Day 1: Sirens or MermaidsDay 2: Hiking or StargazingDay 3: SingingDay 4: Hanahaki DiseaseDay 5: Campfire KissDay 6: NSFW or WeddingDay 7: Whatever you want





	1. Day 1: Sirens or (AND) Mermaids

_Thud thud thud_. “Hey! Do you fucking  _mind?”_

David’s mother had told him that sirens had achingly beautiful voices. And while that was certainly true . . .

_THUD THUD THUD_. “I’m not leaving until you open this door, fish boy!”

. . . they weren’t quite as enchanting as he’d been led to believe. At least, not in David’s experience.

_THUDTHUDTHUDTHUDTHUDTHUDTHUDTHU_  —

David pushed aside the seaweed that served as a curtain to his cave, watching as his intruder’s hand fell, the rock she’d been using to bang on the side of the cave entrance slipping harmlessly into the water. “Uh, there’s no door, ma’am,” he said after an uncomfortably long silence.

The siren glanced from him to the damp green-black strands. “You don’t have a door?” she repeated incredulously. “How the fuck are you even  _alive_  right now?”

David shrugged, moving aside to let her in. After a moment of hesitation, she dropped into the water, following him into the main living area. He panicked for a second — his home was mostly underwater, but what if she needed to breathe? Or somewhere to sit? — but she settled herself at the surface without complaint, so he decided she’d probably let him know if she was dying. “Can I . . . get you something?”

“Yeah,” she snapped, awkwardness replaced immediately by anger. “You can stop fucking saving my dinners.” He . . . wasn’t really sure how to answer that. When he didn’t respond, she sighed, tucking a long reddish-brown strand of hair behind her ear. “Last week? That cargo ship off the coast of Naples? Or what about the pirates two months ago?”

David was starting to get an idea of where this was going. “Um.”

“It took me  _weeks_  to figure out what asshole was rescuing my shipwrecks,” she continued, crossing her arms over her chest. “Didn’t you notice some, I don’t know,  _music_  in the background of your little hero mission? Maybe something that sounded a bit like  _singing?!”_

Now that she mentioned it . . . “M-my mom told me to always help sailors in need. That’s what, uh, merpeople are supposed to do.”

She rolled her eyes. “Well, your charity’s starving me! Do you have any idea how difficult it is to find a ship within singing distance that isn’t prepared for a siren attack?” She swam closer, her expression murderous. “I haven’t eaten in weeks, you absolute  _prick.”_

“Oh.” He swallowed. “Would you li-ike some fish?”

For a moment the stranger just stared at him, brilliant purple eyes wide and shocked. Then she backed off with a groan and pressed the heel of one webbed hand against her temple. “God, I’m dealing with an idiot,” she murmured, to herself more than to him. “Okay, quick biology lesson: sirens? Not mermaids. Don’t eat fish. Eat things with warm blood. Like people. And birds. And  _stupid mermen who keep stealing our dinners,”_ she growled, her hands coming to grip his face just hard enough to hurt.

David was getting the distinct impression he was in trouble.

She had claws, he realized. Sharp ones, the kind that left cold little pinpricks on his cheeks every time she tapped her fingers against his cheekbones. “I’m sorry I saved those sailors from drowning,” he said weakly, starting to think maybe there was a reason to install a door in his cave after all. “I just wanted to help. They were so scared . . .”

She’d bared her teeth — not as sharp as his own, but thicker and stronger and he was confident they were plenty dangerous — but as he watched, something went dull behind her eyes. Her hands fell from his face, and she moved back a few feet. “I  _know_ they were scared,” she muttered. “Fish get scared when you eat them, too.”

If David were braver he would’ve used the opportunity to reach for his spear, or at the very least push her away and swim for his life, but . . . she looked so pathetic, treading water with damp trails snaking from the tips of her ears and over her forehead. Defeated and weary and . . . well, he supposed this was part of what made sirens so dangerous, because even though he could still feel the threatening jab of her claws against his cheeks there was something so seemingly helpless, so beautiful and sad about her. They were closely enough related that her song wouldn’t have an effect on him, but he wasn’t quite immune to big pretty eyes and a frustrated pout.

“What’s your name?”

She glanced up at him, eyes narrowing. “Gwen.”

“W-well, Gwen . . .” He didn’t consider himself an especially quick thinker, but the prospect of being disemboweled was a remarkable motivator. “What if I — helped you? Get food? That isn’t . . . um, sailors?” He brightened. “Most ships have dogs! Do you like dogs?”

It was a shame, he realized with a split second’s disappointment; he liked dogs. They usually licked his face when he saved them from wreckage.

But he considered himself a helper, and Gwen needed help.

“I’ve never . . . I dunno.” She pursed her lips, looking thoughtful. “Warm?”

David beamed. “And furry!”

She took a deep breath and shook her head. “Okay, listen, fish boy —”

“David!”

“R-ight. David.” She was thrown off for a second, then pointed at him, the point of her claw nearly brushing the tip of his nose. “You help me get one of these . . . dog things, and I don’t kill you. But if I don’t like them, you stay the fuck  _off_  my territory, got it? Go save sailors in some other corner of the ocean and let me eat.”

Considering this was much better than the situation he’d been in a few seconds ago, he smiled and held out his hand. “Deal! Come on, I’ll show you where they bring dogs to swim!”

Gwen took it, looking wary. “Uh, thanks. And . . . sorry. For trying to kill you and everything.”

“It’s no problem! I’m not very friendly when I’m hungry, either!”

She shook her head and let him drag her out of the cave.

He couldn’t quite tell from the current rushing past his ears, but he thought she might’ve muttered under her breath, “Yep.  _Definitely_  an idiot.”


	2. Day 2: Hiking or (AND) Stargazing (technically)

David was convinced that one day they’d have a Hiking Camp that didn’t end in complete disaster. The couple times each summer they ran one, he insisted on betting Gwen twenty dollars that it’d go absolutely fine.

She felt a little bad taking his money. But . . .

_“AAAAGHH!”_

. . . not  _too_  bad.

“What?” She abandoned her post at the back of the straggling line of campers and sprinted to where the scream had come from. Shoving aside the apathetic kids gathered in a circle, she knelt down by David, who was sitting up and wiping dirt off his cheek. “Fuck, what happened?”

“Language, Gwen!” he replied cheerfully, leaning forward to inspect his feet; with a hiss through clenched teeth, he carefully picked up his left foot and rested it on his right knee, tugging at his bootlaces with quiet grunts of pain each time the leg was jostled. “I’m sure everything’s fine! Just tripped and landed on my ankle wrong. I’m sure I’ll feel fine in a few minutes!”

Oh no. She’d heard shit like that before. (Usually during other Hiking Camps; for someone who loved nature so much, nature sure didn’t love David.) “C’mere.” Gwen pushed his hands out of the way and gingerly maneuvered his shoe and sock off, ignoring his weak mumbled “ow”s.

He leaned forward, beaming. “See! It looks better already!”

“Better” was a matter of opinion. To her eyes his ankle looked like a horror show, angry purpling bruises already blooming on the swelling flesh. “Did you seriously only sprain this thing? It looks practically broken.”

“I’m sure it’s neither!” He glanced up at the kids, who’d finally all caught up and were watching with varying levels of interest, and smiled apologetically. “Sorry, campers, it’ll be just a few minutes and then I’ll get good to —”

“Yeah, we’re taking you back,” Gwen declared, climbing to her feet and shrugging off her backpack. “I’ve got some first aid shit but you’ll need ice and elevation and —”

“But we’re on a mountain!” he protested with a hopeful grin. “We’re surrounded by elevation!”

“— and rest,” she finished, glowering at him. “Can you walk, David?”

He blinked and looked up at the sky, the closest he got to rolling his eyes. “Of course I can! Just a second …” He managed to make it about halfway to standing without putting weight on the sprain — at which point he collapsed with a whimper. “Let — let me just try again,” he insisted, sniffling and swiping away tears before they could fall.

Yeah, she wasn’t waiting around for that. “Nurf, Ered, help him up,” she ordered, standing on her toes to peer around for QM.  _“Carefully!”_  she added when David let out another cry of pain. She found the Quartermaster hunched over a bush, glaring deep into it at something only he could see. “David got hurt. Think you can take over the rest of the hike? He needs to get back to camp.”

“Mmhmm.” The Quartermaster swiped at the bush with his hook, causing it to rattle and erupt into rodent-like chattering, then turned to her, impassive.

Gwen took a couple steps back. “Right. Thanks, QM.” Turning back to the kids, she pointed at Nurf again, who was supporting David. “You’re in charge. If everyone makes it back to camp alive, you get . . . one knife back.”

He crossed his arms, nearly sending David off his feet. “Three.”

“One, and David’s pudding cup at dinner.”

_“Gwen!”_

So he was paying attention to  _that_  but not to where he was walking? “David, you can have  _my_  pudding cup if it means that much to you.”

“Th-thank you.”

Neil frowned. “Then why don’t you just offer Nurf your pudding cup, Gwen? Since he’s effectively getting it anyway —”

“For fuck’s sake,” Gwen cried, throwing her arms in the air, “you’ll get  _someone’s_ fucking pudding cup! Do we have a deal or not?” She waited until he nodded before adding, “Good, then you’re in charge. I mean . . . QM’s in charge, but . . . yeah. Anyway. Hey, David?”

He’d managed to right himself, in part because he was using Ered’s head as support. “Yes, Gwen?” he replied, as sunny as if he wasn’t holding one foot off the ground like a wounded kitten.

“Get on my back, we gotta get back to camp.”

His face fell. “But — ! But  _Gwennn_ , we were going to take the kids up to Sleepy Peak Peak to see the stars!” he whined. “It’s a very important summer tradition!”

“If it helps, none of us gives a shit,” Max offered.

“Shut up, Max. David, you’re not climbing a mountain like that. Hell, I’m not climbing a mountain with you like that. It’s maybe an hour or two’s walk back.”

“But I . . .” He must’ve known she wasn’t backing down, because he let out a defeated sigh and gently released Ered. “Fine,” he mumbled, giving her one last puppy-dog look.

She’d known him way too long to be swayed by that pout. “Yeah, yeah, you big baby. Come on, I wanna get back before dark.”

David wasn’t the most coordinated when uninjured, and he jabbed her a few times with his elbows and knees getting in position. But eventually she had him in piggyback and was tromping her way back down the gentle slope of the mountain, bidding the campers a quick “Try not to die” as they left.

Neither of them spoke for the first half hour or so; Gwen was mostly focusing on not tripping over her own feet and getting them both hurt, and David . . . who ever knew what he was thinking?

Finally he broke the silence. “I’m not too heavy, am I?” he fretted, tightening his arms around her neck.

She rolled her eyes. “David, remember when we had to carry that fucking kiln all the way from the bus stop because you were dumb enough to decide we needed a pottery camp but didn’t need to hire professional kiln delivery? That thing was way heavier than you.”

He nestled his face in the crook of her neck, nosing aside her hair and gently kissing just above the collar of her shirt. “I was trying to save money.”

“Yeah, good thing you spared us those fifty whole dollars. Made a real dent in the other three thousand.” When he didn’t say anything, just pressed another soft kiss to her neck like he could get away with apologizing without actually admitting any wrongdoing, she laughed and hiked him up a few inches to readjust her grip, wincing as he let out a small distressed squeak. “Sorry, babe. Didn’t hurt you too bad, did I?”

David shook his head, something she could feel against her neck and see out of the corner of her eye as his poof of fluffy bangs bounced with the movement. “M’okay. Just tired.”

Gwen resisted the urge to point out that she was the one doing the heavy lifting, here. She knew how worn out one could get just by being in pain; after enough years at the camp it was a familiar feeling. “We’re almost there,” she said instead, trying to pick up her pace without jostling him too much.

For another few minutes he’s quiet. Then she feels a huff of warm air against her hairline:  _“There’s a place I know that’s tucked away . . .”_

“You better not expect me to sing along,” she said with a slightly breathless laugh. Sure, she was strong and David was light, but she’d still been lugging 130 pounds of boyfriend downhill for the better part of an hour. This was definitely her exercise for the week. Maybe the month. “Or are you trying to motivate me to speed up?”

“No! I just thought . . . sometimes it makes things go faster. If there’s music.”

“And you don’t know anything with a little more rock?”

He was quiet for a few seconds. Long enough that she started wondering if she should apologize.

_“Here we are now, entertain us . . .”_

Gwen repressed a snort. Apparently something within the decade — or the millennium — was out of the question. But it was sweet of him to try. “Actually, that camp song’s growing on me.”

She could practically  _feel_  his ears prick up. “Really?”

“Yeah. And I still only know the beginning part, so . . .”

“I can teach you!”

Gwen hated to admit it, but trying to memorize the proper order of “football, limbo, science, stunting . . .” actually  _did_  make the walk go the tiniest bit faster. Though by the time they finally got back to camp he’d long given up on the song; judging by the warm, pliant weight against her back and neck and the gentle breaths ghosting over her collarbone, he’d fallen asleep, or was close to it. “David?” she murmured, trying to rouse him as gently as possible. (A gesture that proved immediately pointless when she tripped over a rock in the dimming light and almost sent them both flying into the dirt.) “We’re . . . uh, here,” she finished lamely. “You okay?”

“Ngh . . .” She wasn’t sure if that was grogginess or pain, but he recovered admirably. “Oh! Of course.” Wriggling free of her and hopping over to the cabin, he leaned against the wall as she unlocked the door, letting her loop his arm over her shoulders and help him into the wooden box they called home. “Thank you for taking care of me,” he said softly as she settled him down on his bed, propping his injured leg up with pillows and wrapping the ankle up with an ice pack.

“Like I had a choice,” she shot back, tapping her nose against his to cushion the words. “If you get eaten by bears or something I’m the only one here to run this hellhole.”

David took the pain meds she handed him and fumbled for his canteen. “Language,” he began, then but off with a gasp. “Gwen, Gwen, turn off the lights!”

There was something in his voice that made her nervous, an urgency that compelled her to do as he said. “What? Is there a creep out there or something? That drug dealer guy?”

“Look at the stars,” he breathed, scooching over as well as he could (and flinching as his ankle twisted) and pressing his face to the window. “Aren’t they beautiful?”

She couldn’t exactly see them with his head blocking the pane like that, but his awestruck face was too cute for her to be annoyed. “Sure are,” she said, sitting on the side of the bed and wrapping her arm around his shoulders. He turned and let her peck his temple before getting sucked back into the view, and for a few minutes she studied his profile, the bleached moonlight glancing off his nose and forehead and cheekbones so that his freckles looked almost black and his eyes were practically silver. “Sorry you’re not at Sleepy Peak Peak.”

He shook his head, tearing his gaze away from the window and snuggling into her side. “It’s okay,” he said, taking her hand. “This is nice, too.”

“I’m honored.” She flipped over the hand in hers, tracing with her fingernail the pale pink scar that cut across his palm and was mirrored on the back of his hand.

David shivered, pulling his hand free. “Ssstop that,” he whined. “You know that I . . .”

“What?” She raised her eyebrows, smirking as he looked away and pressed his lips together. “David, is something wrong?”

“You  _know,”_  he muttered.

“Yeah, I do.” Gwen sighed dramatically, gently settling her cheek on his shoulder. “But you’re out of commission until your foot heals, so . . .” He made a small sad noise, like a squeaky chew toy with not enough air, and she laughed. “Come on, you didn’t think about that?”

“No . . .” And he sounded so pathetic, especially with his giant swollen ankle propped up in the air, that she had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from grinning.

“Sorry, Brother David,” she teased, smirking as he flushed dark and turned his head away, “doctor’s orders.” Idly, she walked her fingers up his stomach, watching the muscles twitch minutely. “You’re kinda keyed up, aren’tcha?”

He shrugged, still not quite facing her. “It was a long walk,” he finally muttered. “You were . . . close.”

“And?”

“And warm.” When she just waited expectantly, he pouted slightly and added, “And smelled nice.”

“Wow. Triple threat, huh?” Gwen kissed his ear — the closest thing facing her — and David’s breath caught audibly. “How’d you survive that?”

“Th . . . the camp song helped.”

She snorted, nearly shoving him over before remembering he was hurt. “Greenwood, you creep.” He sighed and covered his face with his hands, but she gently pulled them away, circling each of his wrists with her thumb and middle finger. “I mean . . . your ankle hurts, doesn’t it?”

David looked like he was seriously considering lying, but then his shoulders drooped and he mumbled, “Yeah.”

Gwen made a sympathetic noise. “Could probably use a distraction, huh?”

His eyebrows quirked up, his head cocking just slightly to the side. “Um . . . maybe?”

“We just gotta keep that leg from moving. Which . . . poses a couple problems. But not  _too_  many, I don’t think.” She grinned up at him, taking his hands and lacing their fingers together. “Any ideas?”

She’d never get used to the way he looked at her, all breathless wonder and glowing pleasure and wariness. Especially in those moments when his smile cut through his shock, as warm and reassuring as his fingers tightening around hers. “A couple,” he admitted, not quite meeting her eyes.

“Me too,” she said, fighting to keep the teasing gloat out of her voice. “I have some really good ones.”

David laughed then, soft and gentle like the moon-drenched air of the cabin. “You always do, Gwen.”


	3. Day 3: Singing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by [Sugarclocked's post](https://sugarclocked.tumblr.com/post/164739077587/its-just-one-of-those-days-where-the-only-person)

“ _Smile_ , goddammit — I’m fine. I- . . . I’m . . . fine.”

Gwen was no stranger to overhearing David’s smile exercises in the morning. She’d mostly just tuned it out, and he’d finally given up on trying to get her to join him in “starting the day with a positive attitude!”

The choked wet gasp of breath, the quiet muttered, “Pull yourself together, for pete’s sake” — those were new. And troubling. Gwen immediately redirected her path, ducking into their shared bathroom as quietly as possible.

He was hunched over the bathroom sink, one hand braced against the cheap oxidizing metal edge of the basin and the other covering his eyes. His shoulders were shaking. Everything was shaking. The sniffling half-strangled whimpers were louder in here, punctuated by murmured berations that were wobbly and filled with loathing and so completely  _not_  David.

“Stupid,  _stupid — !”_

“David?” He jerked upright, swiping at his face with his sleeve and giving her a trembling smile that was about as convincing as their half-assed Science Camp. For a second they just looked at each other, him trying valiantly to look like he wasn’t having a breakdown in the middle of the bathroom and her trying to figure out what the fuck to do about it. Finally she just held out her arms with an awkward half-smile. “Want a hug?”

There was a split second of indecision on his face, where she could see his love of hugs warring with the fact that he knew she didn’t like them. But hell, she was  _offering_  . . . He was across the room in two long-legged steps, crushing her to his chest and burying his face in her hair with a sob. His grip was suffocating, as usual, but for once it didn’t feel like he was trying to break her in half to suffuse joy into her like osmosis.

This time, she felt like the only thing keeping David standing.

Gwen wasn’t great at comforting people, but she rubbed circles between his shoulder blades and murmured soothing nonsense in his ear and waited for the shuddering, body-wracking tears to subside.

David wasn’t the kind of guy to do anything halfway. When he was happy he was  _HAPPY!!_ , like a puppy on a sugar high. When he really let himself get mad, he was genuinely intimidating. When he tore off whatever band-aids were papered over his smile, when he was genuinely overcome with that three-in-morning gut-wrenching  _despair_  . . .

Well, if sadness was physical they’d be splashing through four feet of blood.

(Always 110%, that co-counselor of hers.)

“Sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t . . . mean to.”

“What’s wrong?” Shit, was the camp getting shut down or something? Had someone died?

He sniffled with a hollow laugh. “N-nothing. That’s the —” Another hitch in his breath. “— the worst part.”

“Just a blue day?”

“Uh-huh.”

She knew that feeling all too well. “Don’t you take something for this?” she asked, pulling away slightly. His face was a mess, and he tried to duck his head to hide it from her. She left him to hunt down some tissues.

“Ran out,” he said, wrapping his arms around himself like he was trying to continue the hug. “A couple days ago. I . . . there’s a refill in town, but I di-hhidn’t want to miss any of the preparations for Parents’ Day.” From behind her she heard a choked whimper and abandoned the search, snagging an unopened roll of toilet paper and a washcloth from the closet. “I’m s-so  _stupid_. All for — for no reason. Just another fff _fucking_  disaster.”

“Nope, shut up.” She tossed him the toilet paper and ran the cloth under the sink. Wringing it out, she returned to his side and pushed his fringe back, patting his face until it looked a little less blotchy and red. “We both ruined Parents’ Day, you don’t get to take all the credit.” When that didn’t earn even a tiny laugh, she sighed and tossed the washcloth into a corner, twining her arms around his chest again and resting her cheek on his shoulder. “You’re the only reason this place is still running, David,” she murmured, feeling his arms return around her in an embrace less constricting and desperate than a few minutes ago. “And this afternoon I’ll take over brat roundup so you can go pick up your meds, okay?”

He swallowed, then nodded. “Thank you.”

“Any time. I can’t monopolize all the sad around here, right?” Smiling, David tightened his arms around her, and for a minute or two they didn’t say anything. She just listened to his breathing grow steady and even. “Hey.”

“Yes, Gwen?” And there it was: not quite her David, but something very close.

She closed her eyes with an exaggerated groan. “I can’t  _believe_  I’m saying this, but … would it make you feel better if we sang something? Before this shitshow of a day starts?”

It was like a jolt of electricity had rocketed through him; he pushed her back to look her in the eye, keeping his hands on her shoulders with an almost grave expression. “Really?” he asked, and for the first time all day she saw an actual smile twitching at the corner of his mouth.

Gwen rolled her eyes dramatically, but couldn’t quite smother the dorky grin that was trying to surface in response to his. “If I have no other choice . . .”

“Yay!” He grabbed her hand and dragged her out of the bathroom, and it was like a switch had been flipped and set off an explosion of energy and sunshine where a few seconds ago there’d just been a 24-year-old man.  _“Ooohh, there’s a place I know that’s tucked away . . . !”_

Gwen didn’t yell at him that it was almost impossible to sing while sprinting full-speed across the campgrounds; she was too busy trying not to trip over her feet — or the words.

Always 110%, her David.

No such thing as halfway.


	4. Day 4: Hanahaki Disease

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hanahaki Disease is an illness born from one-sided love, where the patient throws up and coughs of flower petals when they suffer from one-sided love. The infection can be removed through surgery, ~~but the feelings disappear along with the petals~~.

_“David?!”_

He would’ve answered his co-counselor, but his mouth was . . . occupied.

“Christ, David, why didn’t you  _tell_  me?” Gwen’s hands landed on his shoulders, trying to pull him back, but he wrapped his arms around the bathroom wastebasket he was hunched over and shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut against another attack of coughing.

Hanahaki Disease was poetic, in theory. The curse of the lovestruck. In movies and art it was almost elegant, brilliant red rose petals falling like rain with each cough. A good Hanahaki scene was enough to get David sobbing like a baby because it was tragic, so very sad, but so so beautiful. 

Of course, art didn’t usually take into account the fact that lungs were  _wet_ , and so were throats and mouths and rose petals that clumped together in leaden dense globs that sat heavy in his chest and stuck along the sides of his throat and mouth. By the time it looked like the movies, a beautiful torrent of red that fell like a dry waterfall with each breath, dry because there were so many that the ones that made it out were protected from the dampness by layers upon layers of other petals, it was often too late.

So really, David should feel quite lucky that this disease was so disgusting, this hacking and retching, a tickle in the throat and spasm in his lungs and waves of pain that scraped his throat raw and left him feeling lightheaded and nauseous. Because if it had progressed to the stage of being beautiful, he might already be suffocating.

He believed in looking on the bright side.

Once the coughing fit subsided he rested his head on the rim of the wire garbage can, looking down at the damp scarlet that half-filled it. “I’m . . . I’m okay,” he said, wincing as the words felt like fingernails along his damaged windpipe. “I just need a minute.”

Her grip on his shoulders had loosened, but never let go. “How long?”

“Three days ago.” While the campers had found out pretty quickly about the end of his relationship with Bonquisha, he’d done his best to keep it a secret from Gwen. She didn’t need something else to worry about, after all, and he’d been certain that everything would be fine.

When that evening he’d cleared his throat and a limp rose petal had fallen into his palm, he’d been a little less certain. And by the time he couldn’t hide it anymore that certainty had shrunk to a faint, quavering hope.

“Jesus.” She squeezed his shoulder gently, and for a second he thought she was going to comfort him. “Why the fuck haven’t you gone to the doctor yet?”

David shrugged. The truth was, he didn’t want to have to admit what’d happened. His plan was more or less to pretend he’d never dated BonBon and ride this whole thing out.

He coughed again, a bone-jarring wheeze that left him shaking and breathless. 

Gwen sighed. “Hold on, I’ll be right back.” A few seconds later she knelt down by his side again, taking his hand in hers and tapping an orange pill bottle against his palm. “If you won’t get a prescription, just take mine. It should last you a couple days at least.”

He turned the bottle over, reading the label with blurry eyes. “Suppressors?” he asked, glancing up at her. “Why do you have these?”

“Got dumped right before the summer. Didn’t last long, so I never brought it up.”

“Well, gosh, thank you. But I don’t know if I should —”

“Either take them or I’m just gonna throw ’em out, David.”

He carefully unscrewed the bottle, shaking a cream-colored pill out into his hand. He  _did_  hate waste, after all. “They really work?”

“Have you noticed me coughing up a flower garden all summer? Trust me, they work.” She stood and pulled out her Camp Campbell Official Campteen, the water bottles issued to the counselors every summer. Filling it in the bathroom sink, she handed it to him without looking down. “Might take a couple hours to kick in, so why don’t you take the rest of the day off? Today’s activities are pretty low-maintenance anyway.”

David really wanted to object, but he was struck by another coughing fit, one that made his vision swim and darken at the edges. Finally he just nodded, and she helped him off the floor of the bathroom and into bed, emptying the garbage and setting a new one within easy reach. “Thank you, Gwen,” he mumbled into his blankets, feeling ashamed and stupid. What kind of pathetic loser not only got dumped, but got himself sick over it?

Bonquisha was right. He really wasn’t much of a man at all.

Gwen waved dismissively, pulling the curtains shut. “Happens to everyone,” she said. “Don’t worry about it.” She paused at the doorway, looking uncertain; he was about to ask what was wrong when she darted back over to his bedside, squeezing his shoulder awkwardly. “Take care of yourself, CBFL.”

“CBFLs,” he repeated, smiling.

* * *

As usual, Gwen was right. By dinnertime he was feeling almost back to normal, and by the next day he was more than ready to take on the world. “Wowzers, those are really something!” he said, bouncing alongside Gwen as they made their way to the mess hall for breakfast.

She nodded, never one for conversation before she’d had her coffee. Raising her fist to her mouth, she coughed and grimaced, wiping her hand on her shorts. “Fucking allergies,” she muttered.

“Are you gonna be okay?”

“They’re allergies, David, not the flu,” she snapped. “I’ll be fine.”

He ignored her bad attitude; that was just Morning Gwen. She’d feel much better with a little caffeine and sugar in her system!

By mid afternoon, Gwen had hunted down a box of tissues and kept backing off to cough into them, causing some of the campers to call her Mr. Poe (a reference he didn’t recognize) and Typhoid Mary (a reference he did). He kept them off her back as much as possible, and she was as capable a counselor as usual, but as the day wound to an end he’d started to worry.

“Listen, if it’s gonna keep you up all night I’ll sleep on the couch in the mess hall, it’s not that big a deal,” she grumbled, stabbing at one of the meatballs provided for dinner; her fork bounced off, splattering them both with sauce.

“That’s not what I meant!” He didn’t really sleep, anyway. “I just thought — if you’re not taking care of yourself —”

“I’m  _fine_. I’d be even  _more_  fine if you’d let me be allergic and miserable in peace.”

David couldn’t help feeling like one of the campers when Gwen got mad at him. Dropping his gaze to his own plate, he murmured, “No problem,” and let it drop.

* * *

And he did. For a few more hours.

“Gwen! Since we’re here, why don’t you go to the pharmacy and pick up some allergy medicine? I don’t need any help at the General Store.”

She glared at him. “This is why you made me come into town with you, isn’t it?” He just smiled blithely at her and she sighed. “Yeah, fine. Need more tissues anyway. Don’t buy anything stupid this time, okay? We  _don’t need_  more knives.”

He found her a half hour later leaning against the wall of The Only Bar, looking down at her phone with a tissue pressed over her mouth. “Knives?” she asked, narrowing her eyes; when he shook his head she held out a small paper bag with another orange bottle inside. “Looks like my doctor sent refills for the whole summer. You still —” The tissue returned to her mouth, catching her cough, “— need them?”

“I really think I’m feeling much be . . .” He trailed off, his face suddenly cold as the blood fled it.

David hadn’t seen Bonquisha since Max and his friends’ disastrous attempt to get them back together. He hadn’t seen her new boyfriend, either — although he  _had_  sent Jacob a bouquet of apology flowers while he was in the hospital and received a lovely thank-you card in return (which he’d promptly torn up and fed to the platypus). 

And he certainly hadn’t seen them together, his arm draped casually over her shoulders and their fingers interlinked, her head resting against his chest in a way that seemed highly impractical for walking down the street but there they were and there he was and for the first time in days he felt the back of his throat itch, the insistent tickle that infected the roof of his mouth and inner ears and made him want to claw his neck open to get at the irritation and make it stop stop  _stop_  —

He nodded, clearing his throat and trying to swallow away the feeling. With a quick glance over her shoulder at the couple, Gwen dropped the bag into his hand and led him back to the Campmobile.

If clearing his throat turned into sniffling, and if in a quiet, slightly shaky voice he asked her to drive home, and if he spent the ride back to camp looking out the window and occasionally brushing at his cheeks with the back of one hand, neither of them brought it up.

He was glad to have the refills, though. Just in case.

* * *

The next few days weren’t easy, but Gwen was there and she made it better. She kept the counselors’ mini-fridge stocked with his favorite Ben & Jerry’s and listened to his same sad complaints over and over again. She was even less hug-averse than usual, more than once letting him curl up against her side and rest his head on her shoulder when he found himself missing touch more than usual. He didn’t even care about her coughing, even though it was starting to sound a whole lot worse than allergies ever should, because even if he got sick too, it was worth seeing his normally caustic coworker soften her apathy into something a lot more like protectiveness, even affection.

Quality time with his CBFL was worth a couple nasty germs.

And he did his best about letting her treat her own allergies, even though the over-the-counter medication she’d bought in town didn’t seem to be doing much good. If anything she was getting worse, more than once having to disappear in the middle of an activity and returning a just bit more drawn and tired. Still, he wanted her to know that he trusted her judgement!

But he finally had to put his foot down when Gwen stumbled into the mess hall at the tail end of breakfast, catching her shoulder on the doorframe and hardly seeming to notice. She was paler than he’d ever seen her, with circles under her eyes that looked like they’d been drawn there with a soot-covered finger and her hairline dotted with moisture that didn’t match the comparatively cool morning. She brushed a strand of limp hair out of her eyes with fingers that were almost as lifeless, her eyes glancing off the campers without seeming to fully focus on any of them.

“Gwen!” David pushed past Nerris and Harrison — who were arguing over something magic, he was sure — and took her by the shoulders. “Golly, you look like a mess!”

“Thanks,” she muttered, but it lacked her usual snarl. 

Normally he’d chalk that up to her being sleepy, but he’d heard her coughing all night. “Listen, I think you might have the flu. Why don’t you get some rest and —”

“I’m  _fine_ , David.” She shook him off and shuffled past him toward the rasping coffeemaker. “I just need some coffee, calm down.”

For a moment he was lost, watching her fumble with the paper cups. He wasn’t used to telling her what to do, but . . . Drawing himself up to full height (he had an extra three inches on her, and he planned on using them), he caught up with her, gingerly tugging the empty cup out of her hand.

“Now, Gwen. I hate to pull rank on you —” Her lip curled and his courage flagged, “— but — but I’m technically the senior counselor here, so . . .” David lifted his chin and squared his jaw, hoping he looked more intimidating than he felt. “You’re sick, and you need to go back to bed. I’m . . . ordering you. To. Do that now.”

“You’re  _ordering_  me?” she repeated, disbelieving.

“I can handle the camp just fine for one day, and you need to rest, so —”

“Fuck you.” She tried to push past him again, back toward the coffee, but he grabbed her upper arm and tugged her back, a little alarmed at how easily he could move her. “I —”

She cut off with a hacking wheeze, nearly doubling over; he was positive that if he hadn’t been holding her she would’ve fallen. It sounded  _violent_ , like if she pulled her hand away from her mouth her palm would be filled with bloody chunks of lung.

For a second he thought he was going to faint, because he caught sight of a splash of red between her fingers, just a momentary glimpse, and it felt like his horrible vision had come true. “Is that — is that  _blood?”_

She was still struggling to catch her breath, but she tilted her head to glare up at him. “I’m coughing my asshole out,” she finally said, dropping her hand from her face and curling it into a fist against her chest. (He could still see tiny flashes of wet crimson between her fingers, not a lot but enough to terrify him.) “Sorry my throat’s a  _little_ irritated.”

“Gwen, maybe I should take you to the doctor —”

 _“No.”_  She shook her head, taking a couple unsteady steps back. “Fine, I’ll . . . I’ll fucking lay down, okay? If you’re gonna make such a big deal out of it.”

Well, it was a start. “I’ll check in on you at lunchtime.”

“Whatever.” She turned and made a beeline for the door. In the quiet stillness that remained David was suddenly reminded that he had a building full of campers to counsel.

He turned to the sea of upturned faces — some wary, some curious, most just bored — and clapped his hands. “All right, kiddos! It’s just us today, so let’s put on our best faces and campe diem!”

* * *

The day was a bit hectic without his cocounselor there to help, and the sun had disappeared by the time he remembered his promise to check in on Gwen. As soon as the campers were all put to bed, he practically raced back to the cabin, berating himself for being so thoughtless.

When he opened the door to their shared bedroom, he thought for a second that she must’ve been writing, or . . . or something. Because the moonlight-pale floor was drenched in black, ink that oozed from her bed and dripped down her blankets in fat drops.

“G- wen?” He flicked the light switch on and clamped a hand over his mouth, forcing his jaw shut around a high-pitched scream that would’ve woken the entire camp.

At first he was sure Gwen’s side of the room was covered in blood, but he realized after a moment that the red, which had looked black in the darkness, wasn’t fluid at all but wet rose petals, more than he’d ever coughed up. More than he thought could even fit in her body.

She’d lifted herself onto her elbows when the light turned on. Just long enough for him to see her red-rimmed eyes and the petals that stuck to her damp face like open wounds. “Da — !” The word was drowned in another barking cough, liquid and thick with the flowers that plopped onto her pillow.

It wasn’t beautiful.

David leapt forward, accidentally grabbing some of her blanket as he scooped her into his arms and not caring, trailing the fabric behind him and leaving the cabin door open on the way to the Campmobile, because there wasn’t time, not when every breath rattled and whistled like that, when she was too weak to struggle against him, when each step dislodged more petals from her clothes and hair and blanket, leaving behind a trail like blood that led to the passenger side of the car.

Maybe he should call an ambulance, he thought for a second, but Gwen coughed again and the thought was shoved out of his mind. They didn’t have time to wait for an ambulance.

The drive was fast and dark and winding and terrifying and silent, even though he was brimming with questions. He just couldn’t imagine how Gwen, the most levelheaded, responsible person he’d ever met, could have messed up like this. Had she forgotten to refill her prescription? Had it just snuck up on her somehow? 

No, no, that didn’t make sense. She’d gotten it refilled at the pharmacy, when they went into t —

_Town._

_Oh._

The car swerved dangerously as the wheel jerked in his hands, the result of a full-body tremor that sent ice down his spine and curled like a snake around his lungs. 

Had . . . she wouldn’t have given  _all_  her pills to him, would she? Not if she’d needed them herself? Then again, he hadn’t heard her mention a breakup all summer, and she was usually pretty open about those things, if only so he wouldn’t eat her “heartbreak ice cream.” Maybe . . . had she met someone in town, then?

“Gwen,” he said, even though she wasn’t listening, even though he thought she was asleep —  _hoped_  she was asleep. Even though the words felt wrong in his mouth, because he wasn’t supposed to be the voice of reason and she wasn’t supposed to be reckless. “Gwen, what were you  _thinking?”_

The only response was a quiet cough and a pained inhale, and even though he considered himself a very safe driver with a healthy respect for traffic laws, he pressed down on the gas pedal until it nearly touched the floor.

* * *

“Sleepy Peak General Hospital, what is the nature of your emerge — holy fuck.”

David ignored the receptionist’s question as well as her language. Cradling Gwen against his chest as well as he could while reaching for the “new patient” clipboard, he said, “Yes! Excuse me, my friend — w-well, my coworker, but also my friend, she’s . . . she keeps coughing and I don’t think she can breathe very well and I’m not sure what to do, she has medication but she hasn’t been taking it and —”

The receptionist had seemed to mostly be ignoring his rambling, fumbling through her desk until she found a call button. Regaining her composure — though still unable to take her eyes off of Gwen — she said, “Sir, your friend’s condition requires immediate attention. If you could just step to the left there will be an attendant with you in just a —”

The end of her sentence was lost in another coughing fit, so intense that Gwen nearly toppled out of his arms with the force of it. He gingerly set her on the ground, figuring it’d probably feel better to have something steady to brace against, and she immediately rolled onto her hands and knees, her forehead nearly touching the ground as she struggled to breathe through the petals gushing from her lips.

The medics appeared before the attack had died down, and her agonized hacking didn’t interfere with their work as they bundled her onto a stretcher, talking rapidly in a code he didn’t recognize — or maybe it was English. He wasn’t really in a state to tell.

Gwen rolled onto her side despite the medics’ attempts to keep her on her back. Her head hung over the side of the stretcher, her hair falling in her face and her limbs shaking. The rose petals were so thick and so fast that they came out of her mouth dry, a ruby flood that cascaded against the white tile like a waterfall. It was beautiful.

_It looks like just the movies._

The doors slammed shut behind the attendants, leaving him alone in the waiting room with clammy skin and a puddle of rose petals at his feet.

* * *

They finally called him in at three a.m., told him she was out of surgery and awake, that she couldn’t talk much but had requested to see him if he was still there. (And of course he was; he’d fallen asleep in a plastic yellow bucket seat after filling out the hospital paperwork and ensuring the Quartermaster was prepared to watch over the campers for the night. He wondered if Gwen had really thought he’d leave her there.)

David was used to seeing Gwen with her feet planted in packed dirt, staring down a group of uncooperative campers. Or slouched back against a wall with a magazine between her fingers. Not curled up in a sterile white bed, hooked up to a beeping machine with needles in her arms and bandages around her neck. She looked small, and tired, and sad, but she lifted her chin and gave him a wan smile as he entered and sat down on the side of her bed.

“Good thing you never sleep, huh?” she joked weakly, her voice hoarse and breathy like her throat was lined with cheese graters. When he didn’t say anything — didn’t know what to say, or how to say it, despite having had hours to prepare — she sighed. “I’m sorry, David.”

“I know.” Her hand was sitting in her lap, a thin clear needle sticking into it; he rested his fingers on top of hers, avoiding the taped-in syringe. “What happened?” he asked, and after a moment of silence added, “You owe me this, Gwen.”

“Yeah, I do. But . . .” She groaned, shaking her head. “I mean, does it matter? I’m okay, Campbell will pay for the surgery and I’ve got medication —”

His fingers tightened in hers, and he pulled his hand away before he hurt her. “Yes, you have medication!  _Now_. Why didn’t you before?”

“Because you weren’t gonna get any for yourself, and if one of us has to be the camp counselor it has to be you! I can’t keep that place running like you can.”

That . . . was touching. But it wasn’t good enough. “That was really dangerous,” he said, forcing himself to keep his voice steady and firm. Discipline wasn’t his strong suit with the campers, let alone Gwen.

She rolled her eyes. “Whatever, it’s not that big a deal.”

“We’re in the hospital! It’s pretty much the biggest deal possible!” He lowered his voice, suddenly remembering where they were and what time it was. “You could’ve died, Gwen. Then where would I be?”

He’d expected that to make her laugh, maybe remind him how hopeless he was without her to keep his head on straight. He hadn’t anticipated the flush that came over her too-pale skin, or the way she gnawed on her lip nervously. “I . . .”

“Good morning, Gwen!” A nurse bustled in, her voice somehow both a whisper and a song. “How are we feeling? You gave us quite a scare!” She didn’t seem to need a reply, pulling out a small paper cup of water and another with a pill. “Make sure your girlfriend takes her suppressants,” she said with a wink to David. “Don’t want her back in here again, do we?”

“O-oh! I’m not her . . . boyfriend . . .” But the nurse had already handed him the cups and rushed out of the room, leaving them and a thick, spiraling tense silence behind.

Gwen laughed, then winced and touched the bandages on her throat. “That was awkward.”

He chuckled, holding out the cups. “Pills first or water?”

She took the medicine under his watchful gaze; he even made her open to mouth and stick out her tongue to prove she’d really swallowed it. “Thank you,” she said she he sat back, satisfied. She was looking down at her hands, and he realized she hadn’t met his eyes since he walked in.

 _She must feel really guilty_ , he thought with a pang of sympathy. Then:  _Good. She deserves it._

“I just . . . wanted you to be happy.” The words were barely a breath, low and stilted like she always was when admitting something she didn’t want to. The voice when she’d told him she hadn’t gotten the job he’d driven her to the interview for, or when she’d mentioned that her parents kept calling her writing a “cute hobby.”

David felt like he’d been punched in the stomach.

Gwen hadn’t been taking those pills for someone who’d broken her heart before that summer.

The person who didn’t love her back wasn’t hundreds of miles away.

He was sitting on the side of her bed. His thigh was touching hers.

“I . . .” He couldn’t finish that sentence. Because what was there to  _say?_

“I’m going to bed,” she muttered, pulling back as much as she could and turning onto her side. Her voice was thick with exhaustion and tears —  _exhaustion and tears_ , he reminded himself, not rose petals. Not this time. “They said I can leave the day after tomorrow, after some observations. You . . . you can send QM to pick me up. Or I’ll take a cab or something, it’s fine.”

He should stay. He should at least promise to visit her tomorrow, or to pick her up the day after. He should tell her she was beautiful, and amazing, and that he was so sorry. That it would pass. That he hoped she wouldn’t have to leave camp. That he’d never in a million years imagined that — that of all people —

“Of course, Gwen,” he said instead, standing and backing up to the doorless entrance of the hotel room. “Get some rest.”

The waiting room was empty when he came downstairs, the sleepy town apparently having exhausted its emergencies for the night. Even the receptionist was gone, a “Be back in 5 minutes” sign propped up on her desk.

David collapsed into one of the chairs, resting his elbows on his knees and putting his head in his hands. For a few minutes he just focused on breathing, on staring at the tiles between his feet and trying not to imagine the awfully-beautiful, just-like-the-movies splash of blood-red petals that’d painted them just a few hours before. Trying not to think of what it must’ve felt like for Gwen, to have so much clogging your throat and lining your lungs that you couldn’t breathe or speak with the weight of it. Trying not to think of what it must feel like for Gwen right now, lying upstairs in a sterile empty room.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

_“Fuck.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tweaked with the rules a bit so Gwen still has feelings. Couldn't resist the added angst.


	5. Day 5: Campfire Kiss

“Wasn’t this a good idea?”

“This was definitely . . . an idea.”

“Aww, Gwen, I think it’s a lot of fun!”

She scowled, pulling her sweatshirt closer around herself. “You didn’t have to spend the day dodging Pikeman. Of course you had fun.”

David frowned. “Now, I know he’s a little overbearing —”

“That’s a hell of a way to say ‘creepy and should have his hands cut off,’ but sure.”

“—  _but_  the Woodscouts are an important part of the Lake Lilac Camping Association! And it’s a great way to ensure the campers experience a variety of people and —”

“Don’t recite the brochure at me, David. I helped  _write_  it.” Gwen rolled her eyes, looking around at the dodgeball game that’d sprouted up — not for the fate of the camp, for once. (She’d already had to shut down three different “for the fate of the camp” bets, and it was only the first day of their weekend-long Friendship Retreat.) “But yeah, this could’ve been way more of a disaster.”

“Thank you, Gwen!” He straightened up, brightening, and for a moment they watched the game in silence. “This . . . was a good idea, right?” he repeated, his voice a little quieter.

She softened, leaning in and bumping her shoulder against his. “Definitely, David. You should be proud of it.” He’d worked harder to get this ready than on anything else all summer. Though . . . maybe some of that was her fault. “We should probably call everyone over soon, huh?” she asked, tilting her head back to the darkening sky. “Get this show on the road?”

He deflated slightly, his shoulders slumping and his gaze dropping to the dirt. “I guess,” he mumbled.

She laughed, climbing to her feet and stretching. “It was your idea, Greenwood.”

“The competition was!” he insisted, scrambling up as well. “Not the stakes!”

“Listen, I was  _not_  hanging the fate of the camp on your ability to scare people! It was the only other idea we knew he’d accept.”

David opened his mouth to argue, but caught sight of something over Gwen’s shoulder. His mouth pressed into a narrow line and his eyes darkened, and she realized why a second later.

“So, Camp Campbell counselors. Are you ready to begin the Campfire Scary Stories?” Pikeman oozed between them, angling to the side to shoulder David out of the way and giving her a skin-crawling smile she was pretty sure was supposed to be charming. “I  _assume_  you both remember the  _stakes?”_

“We remember,” David replied shortly, “and we should really get that fire built up a bit more! Gwen, if you’ll help me —”

“Of  _course_ , of course,” Pikeman replied, backing away with his hands in the air, the gesture both conciliatory and somehow condescending. “Gwendolyn and I will have  _plenty_  of time to bond after the Woodscouts win this competition.”

It’d been Gwen’s idea to bargain Pikeman down from betting the entire camp to a single date. She figured it was relatively harmless, costing her a boring evening but no risk of losing her job or one of their campers; she’d actually been pretty proud of herself for coming up with it.

David? A little less thrilled.

“Building up the fire” was a pretty weak excuse to get away, considering the Quartermaster and the Woodscouts’ combined forces had created a blazing inferno that could probably be seen from space, but she didn’t mind the chance to get away from the zoo for a few minutes. “You know,” she said, glancing over her shoulder to make sure they were out of sight and then looping her arm through his, “I can kinda see why you like the woods so much. I mean, compared to all the screaming children. It’s peaceful.”

Normally he’d leap at the opportunity to share the beauty of nature with her, especially since moments when she was actually interested in it were few and far between, but he just shook his head. “I still don’t know about this, Gwen,” he muttered, continuing like their conversation hadn’t been interrupted for several minutes. “What if he tries something . . .  _improper?”_

“It’s not like we’d be going on a date to the fucking Wild West. If that happens I call the fucking cops. Or break his nose. Probably both.” She elbowed David in the side, grinning. “Besides, what happened to you being sure you could win this thing? What, you’re confident enough to bet the entire camp but not lose one evening with your girlfriend?”

It was a little too dark to clearly see his expression, especially under the trees, but she was close enough to see his eyes flick towards her. “I know we’d never lose the camp,” he admitted, “not once Mr. Campbell came back. He’d find a way to undo the bet. I  _know_  it’s not going anywhere.” He sighed, his head drooping. “I’m . . . I guess I’m not as sure about you.”

David sounded embarrassed, anxious, and painfully vulnerable. Which made her snorting laughter a completely inappropriate response, but . . . “Seriously? Fucking  _Pikeman?_  First off, gross. I’m pretty sure that’s illegal,” she teased, coming to a stop and tugging on his bandanna until he turned to face her. “And second.” She pressed her lips together, her hilarity subsiding as she tried to figure out how to put her feelings into words; for someone with a Psych degree, she was pretty bad at it. “I’m not going anywhere,” she finally said. “Even if I get another job and leave the camp someday, that doesn’t mean . . .” God, what kind of writer was she if words were this fucking hard? “I’m not just killing time here, David. I really  _do_  like you.”

His smile cut through the dim blue-tinted forest like his teeth glowed in the dark. “Really?” And the tiny lilt of hope in his voice, flavored with nervousness, made her chest ache.

“Yeah.” He was the first boyfriend she’d ever had who was short enough that she didn’t have to stand on tiptoe to rub her nose against his — a move she’d always considered tacky and uncomfortable, but her mind had been changed one-hundred percent by the way it unfailingly made David melt, his shoulders relaxing and his arms twining around her waist with his hands linked together at the small of her back. “I guess you grew on me. Like fungus.”

_“Hey!”_

“Or a rash.”

“That’s not very nice!” He started to pull back, but she tightened her fingers in the yellow cloth around his neck, effectively pinning him in place.

“Do we have to go back right away?” That would’ve been a more seductive line if her voice hadn’t cracked in the middle of it, but she soldiered on valiantly. “I mean, unless you’re that desperate to see Pikeman again —”

David gently tugged his linked arms forward without letting go, stepping back so that they both stumbled to the edge of the path, her against his chest and his back to a tree. “Five minutes,” he warned, raising his eyebrows in an authoritative way that worked on no one.

“I can work with that.”

* * *

Gwen couldn’t count the number of hours she’d spent cooped up in their cabin with David, first finding something frightening enough to win the competition but that wouldn’t send him into a frozen panic at the thought of reciting it, then poking holes in it and coming up with elaborate backstories for the characters until they’d sufficiently scaffolded the scary story with enough comforting explanations that he’d felt comfortable reading it more than once. Then came endless memorizations and practices and even blocking, Gwen having to call upon her three semesters of Theater Studies to mold his performance into something remotely intimidating.

But she had to admit, despite every single one of her predictions . . . it’d paid off. David could never really pull off  _scary_ , but there was definitely something unsettling about the pleasantly neutral way he spoke, the small smile he could never quite squash (that definitely bordered on smug as the story wove on and the snickers and disinterest gave way to genuine unease). He had a bit of a “what if Mr. Rogers was a serial killer?” vibe most of the time anyway, so after watching way too many hilariously bad attempts to be spooky, she’d finally told him to just tell it like it was a list of his favorite facts about the forest, and somehow that’d worked.

He was about halfway through the story when she felt a tug on her sleeve and saw that Space Kid had sidled up to the log she was sitting on. “Gwen?” he whispered, not nearly as quiet as he thought he was and nearly throwing David off track. “Can I sit on your lap?”

Sometimes the younger campers liked to cuddle up to David when they were feeling homesick or scared, but it was the first time one of them had turned to her for anything resembling comfort. (She considered herself less of the camp mother and more like an underpaid babysitter; she kept them alive, but she was pretty sure none of them actually liked her.) Surprised, she straightened her legs so they were low enough for Space Kid to settle himself on her thigh, automatically wrapping her arms around his middle to keep him from toppling forward into the fire as she sat back up and resting her cheek on the side of his fishbowl.

What? The kid made a good headrest.

By the time David had reached the part with the bells, the entire camp had shifted back, bunched closer together. A semicircle of empty space surrounded David, and Gwen had been joined by Nerris on one side and Nikki on the other, with Harrison curled up like a yellow-eyed cat at her feet. The others kept a bit more distance, but there was definitely less space between them all than there had been fifteen minutes ago.

As the last words faded, landing like damp wool on the circle of campers, he glanced up and met her eyes for the first time the entire story. His detached, calm smile wobbled as he took in the pile of children — Space Kid had fallen asleep, Gwen suspected as a self-defense mechanism, but the rest were crowded around her, unbearably warm with the heat of the fire — then cracked into one she was much more familiar with, real and sunny and just the tiniest bit smug.

She jerked her chin at the fire, trying to remind him of his finishing move without catching the attention of any of the campers. His eyes lit up, and while everyone was still distracted, looking into the fire or staring blankly into space, he bent down and picked up a thick, short branch, tossing it into the campfire with an explosion of sparks and crackling wood. “Hope you all enjoyed that!” he chirped, seeming to ignore the way everyone jumped. “That was a lot of fun, but I think we have time for one more story before bed!”

“That’s  _right_ ,” Pikeman said, glancing at Gwen with a smug grin. “I guess it  _is_  my turn.”

David’s story had been good, and he’d told it perfectly. The tension built slowly enough that his cheery demeanor went from normal to disturbing almost too subtly to notice, and Gwen would bet all the money she had (not that it was much) that when it came to what would keep the kids up at night years later it’d be the thought of bells and clocks and cryptic suicide notes.

David’s had been good.

Pikeman’s was better.

Not the presentation, of course; there was nothing creepy about his slimy delivery except that it sounded like every guy she’d ever been slightly afraid to turn down in high school. But when it came down to it, theirs was a jury of ten-year-olds, and the most classic ghost story couldn’t quite match up to an insane clown murderer, and while there’d been some dissent — including, to her shock and David’s endless delight, from Max — the Woodscouts were declared the winners.

“Sorry, David,” Gwen said, taking a seat on the log next to him. She’d taken charge of putting the kids to bed, since some of the younger ones were still giving David the side-eye after that story and they’d both agreed he should stay behind and tend the campfire. The Woodscouts had headed off to their tents, and QM had disappeared to Spooky Island for what he assured them wasn’t  _anything spooky_ , so for the moment they were alone. “I guess I shoulda picked a better story for the kids.”

“That’s okay!” He shook his head, beaming. “Did you see what happened when I threw the stick! I — I’m not  _happy_  they were afraid, of course, but . . . I mean, I did pretty well, didn’t I?”

Like hell he wasn’t happy; she was certain that only self-restraint was keeping him from leaping up and doing a celebratory dance around the fire. “You terrified the shit outta them.”

“Which is what I was  _supposed_  to do,” he shot back, crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s not like I’d scare them any old time.”

She laughed, resting her head against his shoulder. “I’m proud of you. And you had my vote, for what it’s worth.”

His hand covered hers, long pale fingers tracing the lines of her tendons from knuckle to wrist. “It’s worth a lot, Gwen.”

The silence was broken by the very-not-stealthy footsteps of the Woodscouts returning, giving them just enough time to spring apart before they entered the circle of firelight, the three recruits flanking Pikeman like usual. “Well, Greenwood,” the troop leader said, holding out his hand with an oily smile, “I have to say that was  _very_ well fought.”

For a second Gwen was positive he was going to refuse the handshake, but then David bounced to his feet, taking Pikeman’s hand and hauling him into a quick hug. “Of course, buddy! That was fun.”

Pikeman reeled back, clearly unsettled. Recovering quickly, he tugged his fingers from David’s grip and held them out to her. “And I believe  _we_  had an agreement, hmm?”

Common decency kept her from rolling her eyes or groaning, but she stood without taking his proffered hand. “Yep, guess it’s date time,” she said, sticking her hands in her back pockets and rocking back on her heels, trying to look as platonic as humanly possible. “I mean, unless you’d rather reschedule since it’s kinda late, a lot of places are probably already closed and —”

“No,  _no_. Not by any means! We have something very  _special_  prepared.” He took her arm, drawing her forward a few steps before turning back to David. “We’ll be sure to bring your  _coworker_  back well before sunrise, Greenwood. I can only imagine how Camp Campbell would fall apart without her.”

His smile was just the tiniest bit strained; only knowing him for years gave Gwen any indication that something was off. “Well, I’d sure appreciate it! She’s very important to us here.” He hovered awkwardly for a moment, then darted forward, taking her upper arm and swiveling her around to face him.

She figured he was going to whisper something to her, a warning that she could call if anything went wrong or a reminder of that mini bottle of pepper spray he’d attached to her keychain, but instead of hovering by her ear his lips met hers, his hand abandoning her arm to cup her jawline with his thumb gently swiping her cheekbone and his index finger curling to run the nail over the sensitive spot just below her ear.

“Hhh — !” Her mouth opened with a gasp, and the hand that wasn’t in Pikeman’s gripped his forearm to keep from swaying. Because David kissed slow and tender and shy like a baby deer learning to walk, not possessive and breathless and, sure, motivated by petty jealousy but maybe that worked for her, maybe they’d both read too many dumb romances because this felt lifted straight out of one, down to the sparking fire that raced to the soles of her feet.

He pulled back with a grin that was identical to his usual uncomplicated one . . . at least, if you didn’t know him as well as Gwen did. She suspected the Woodscouts couldn’t see the self-satisfied crinkle at the corners of his eyes, but she sure as fuck did. “Have a great time, sweetheart!” he chirped, his voice pure sunshine, and he plucked her fingers off his arm, squeezing her hand between his own before turning that stupid adorable face to Pikeman. “Take good care of her! I’m gonna go catch some Z’s!”

David was so lucky looks couldn’t kill, because if Pikeman’s didn’t take him out hers would turn the ground he was standing on into a smoking crater.

_What a piece of shit._

“Well.” Pikeman seemed lost for a moment, then tightened his grip on her arm. “Let’s … get started, shall we?”

As the Woodscouts worked at rigging up a small boat — which mostly seemed to consist of yelling at Jermy — Gwen pulled out her phone. ‘I hope you know I’m gonna fucking kill you, you spiteful son of a bitch.’

The reply was instantaneous. So much for sleeping; he’d probably been waiting for her.

‘I hope so! Have a good time! :D’

‘Seriously, David. Youre a dead man the second I get home.’

‘I’m looking forward to it.’


End file.
